Chapter 17 17
Chapter 17 17
Three Years Ago — Monte Carlo, Monaco
The night before his Formula One announcement, Rafael couldn’t sleep.
The city below glowed gold and white, boats rocking in the marina like lazy beasts under the moonlight. From his balcony, the sound of the waves blended with the faint thrum of engines being tuned somewhere along the harbor. Even at midnight, Monaco never really rested.
He lit a cigarette he wouldn’t finish, the first one in months, and leaned against the railing. The salt air clung to his skin.
Inside, the television still played — muted — showing highlights from his last F2 win. His name flashed on the ticker. De Luca Ricciardi Signs Multi-Year Contract with Bandini F1.
Everyone had told him this was destiny.
He should’ve felt something like pride. Or triumph.
But all he felt was tired.
The phone on the table buzzed — messages from sponsors, from Apex management, from journalists he didn’t remember giving his number to.
And one new message, saved in drafts, never sent.
You’d laugh at me if you saw this, Vick.
You’d tell me to breathe.
I haven’t, in a while.
He deleted it.
⸻
Across the city, at a luxury hotel where the Bandini Group hosted a corporate gala, Vicky Alvarez was double-checking press packets for the executives.
Her hands moved automatically, typing, signing, stapling — everything in perfect order.
She’d been promoted six months ago. The youngest in her department. The one who could handle chaos and make it look elegant.
The PR world was her battlefield now.
And she’d learned to fight clean.
Still, when her colleague mentioned the news — “Did you hear? Bandini just signed De Luca Ricciardi. That guy’s unstoppable.” — something in her stilled.
She looked up from her laptop, pretending she didn’t recognize the name.
“Oh? The Italian kid who drives like he’s got a death wish?”
“Yeah. That one.” Her coworker laughed. “He’s the face of the next decade. Every brand wants him.”
“Lucky them,” she said, sipping her coffee.
But the bitterness had nothing to do with caffeine.
⸻
At two in the morning, the gala lights dimmed. Executives stumbled out, champagne-drunk and loud.
Vicky stayed behind in the empty ballroom, finishing her notes for tomorrow’s media briefing. The city glimmered through the glass walls, a reflection of everything she couldn’t reach.
She took off her heels, walking barefoot across the marble floor.
There was something haunting about working in the same city that had once been his dream.
She’d told herself a thousand times that she didn’t follow him here.
That it was coincidence.
That the universe wasn’t that cruel.
And yet, when the night breeze slipped through the open door, carrying the faint echo of a revving engine somewhere far below, her heart stuttered.
It always did.
⸻
Down by the harbor, Rafael walked aimlessly.
No entourage. No cameras. Just him, a hoodie, and the ache of everything he couldn’t undo.
The water shimmered silver under the streetlights.
He stopped near a small café that was still open, bought a coffee, and sat by the sea wall.
He pulled out his phone again — no name on the screen, just the contact saved as New York.
A number he’d never called.
A message thread that started and ended with silence.
He typed again.
You’d like this place.
The sea, the noise.
Feels like home and nothing like it.
He didn’t hit send.
Instead, he watched as a gull landed on a lamppost, preening itself, unbothered by the noise of the world.
Freedom looked easy when you weren’t the one carrying it.
⸻
The next morning, she woke before dawn.
Habit, not need.
Her phone buzzed with updates — press statements, sponsor schedules, call sheets for Bandini’s new season announcement.
She skimmed through the draft email she’d written the night before:
“Bandini Group welcomes a new era of speed with the addition of Italian driver Rafael De Luca Ricciardi.”
Her fingers hovered over the keyboard.
Something in her chest tightened.
Then she hit send.
That was her job, after all — to make other people’s dreams look clean on paper.
⸻
By noon, the press conference took over the city.
Every news feed played the same footage: Rafael, flawless in a tailored Bandini suit, shaking hands with executives, cameras flashing.
He looked older.
Confident.
Composed.
But she knew how to read people now — every blink, every pause.
And there, just for a fraction of a second, between the applause and the questions, his jaw clenched.
The same way it used to when he lied.
And maybe it was projection.
Maybe it wasn’t.
But when the reporter asked, “Who’s the first person you’ll call after this deal?”
and he smiled — that same small, private smile —
she knew he was lying when he said,
“My father.”
Because she knew that smile.
It wasn’t for the cameras.
It never was.
⸻
That night, she wrote a note on a scrap of paper, half a joke, half a wound.
Congratulations, De Luca.
You finally made it.
Don’t crash.
She folded it and tossed it in the trash.
Still, she caught herself smiling.
⸻
He celebrated alone.
The team had thrown a private party, but he slipped out early, escaping through the back terrace.
He ended up on the same balcony where he’d stood the night before — city lights burning below.
This time, he didn’t bring his phone.
Didn’t need to.
Because even without words, he could feel her somewhere out there — in the hum of the city, in the way the sea refused to stay still.
For the first time in years, he whispered her name.
Not to call her back.
Just to remember how it sounded.
“Vicky.”
⸻
Months later, when the Bandini PR department got a new project lead for driver management, Rafael received a brief in his email:
“Primary point of contact for press coordination: Victoria Alvarez, Head of PR.”
He stared at the name for a long time.
Then smiled.
Small.
Knowing.
A little bit like fate had a sense of humor after all.
He typed a reply.
Just one word.
Noted.
And somewhere across the world, in an office filled with flashing screens and brand reports, Vicky Alvarez saw his name appear in her inbox for the first time in eight years — and froze.
::
l
The night before qualifying, Rafael couldn’t hear himself think.
The walls of the hotel suite were thin, the city below louder than usual—shrieking engines, yacht parties, champagne and laughter echoing off the cliffs. Monaco didn’t sleep when the circus came to town.
He stood at the window shirtless, shoulders tense, staring at the flood of lights that painted the water gold.
From up here, it looked perfect—every reflection smooth, controlled.
From the inside, it was chaos.
His phone buzzed again.
Notifications. Mentions. Headlines.
Every one of them had his name in it.
“De Luca Ricciardi’s temper sparks again.”
“Genius or liability?”
“Neon Apex questions their golden boy.”
He locked the screen and threw the phone onto the couch.
Somewhere in the background, the muted TV replayed his press-conference meltdown from earlier that day. The clip everyone was quoting—the moment he’d looked dead into a camera and said, “You can’t talk about risk if you’ve never touched fear.”
They called it arrogance.
He called it exhaustion.
⸻
Across the paddock that same night, Vicky sat in a temporary media tent, typing up post-race statements for a client. Her agency had been contracted to handle several team PR issues for the weekend—including, unfortunately, Neon Apex.
She hadn’t expected to see his name on the file.
When the folder landed on her desk that morning—bold letters: Crisis Containment: R. De Luca Ricciardi—her first instinct had been to shove it back.
But curiosity was a vicious thing.
So here she was, at midnight, surrounded by screens showing his interviews, trying not to read between the lines.
He looked the same on camera—sharp jaw, easy confidence—but she knew what it meant when he smiled like that.
He was drowning, and pretending to float.
Her boss leaned over her shoulder. “Make sure the statement sounds remorseful but not desperate. We want control, not confession.”
“Right,” she murmured. “Control. Got it.”
She typed what they wanted:
‘Rafael De Luca Ricciardi apologizes for the tone of his remarks and reiterates his full commitment to the sport, the fans, and the team.’
It was perfect PR.
And completely lifeless.
She deleted it and started again.
⸻
Rafael sat on the edge of the hotel bed, elbows on his knees, fingers tangled in his hair.
There were still traces of oil on his skin from the garage—he hadn’t even showered.
Someone knocked.
He ignored it.
Another knock, louder this time. “Rafa, open up, man—it’s me.”
It was Alex, his teammate, younger, still naive enough to think winning fixed things.
Rafael opened the door just long enough for Alex to toss him a can of beer.
“You okay?”
“Define ‘okay.’”
Alex leaned against the wall. “You’re trending again.”
“Fantastic.”
“They say you might get fined.”
Rafael took a long swig. “Add it to my tab.”
Alex hesitated. “You know, you don’t have to keep fighting everyone. Sometimes silence works too.”
Rafael smirked without humor. “Silence doesn’t sell.”
Alex looked at him for a beat, then nodded slowly. “Maybe. But peace does.”
When the door closed, Rafael stared at the empty room.
Peace was something he couldn’t afford.
⸻
The next morning, the world spun again.
Reporters everywhere. Paparazzi outside the paddock gates. Fans holding up signs that said RAFAEL IS BACK—half celebration, half threat.
He put on the uniform smile, sunglasses, the posture that said I belong here.
But when a journalist shouted, “Do you regret yesterday’s statement?” he just gave that lazy, lethal grin and said, “You only regret what you didn’t mean.”
The crowd ate it up.
The team didn’t.
⸻
From the control tent, Vicky watched the broadcast live.
Her rewritten statement had gone out an hour earlier—clean, strategic, human.
The internet was already calling it “the comeback apology.”
Her boss passed by, patting her shoulder. “Nice work, Alvarez. You turned the devil into a poet.”
She smiled thinly. “That’s what they pay us for.”
But as she looked at the screen—at him—she couldn’t help wondering if he’d seen the words.
If he’d recognized her phrasing.
If he’d known she’d been there, ghost-writing an apology for a man who never said sorry.
⸻
After qualifying, he finished third.
The press labeled it redemption.
When the interviews ended, he slipped past the reporters, ignoring their questions, and found a quiet corridor near the paddock exit. He pulled off his gloves, sat on a crate, and exhaled for the first time in hours.
A small notification blinked on his phone.
A message from the team’s PR channel:
“Approved final statement attached. Please post to your socials ASAP.”
He opened it.
Read the words.
‘To everyone who felt disappointed—thank you for reminding me what matters. Racing has always been more than a job; it’s a mirror. Sometimes it reflects what we need to fix.’
He read it twice.
It didn’t sound like him.
But it sounded like someone who used to know him.
He posted it anyway.
⸻
That night, the apology trended.
#RicciardiRedemption.
Everyone bought it.
And somewhere in the same city, Vicky scrolled through her feed, saw his post, and whispered, “You’re welcome, idiot.”
Then she locked her phone and went back to work.
⸻
Weeks later, during the Italian Grand Prix, their paths almost crossed again.
Her agency had seats near the sponsor lounge; his garage was a floor below.
She caught a glimpse of him walking through the crowd—cap low, headset on, surrounded by cameras.
He didn’t see her.
But when he lifted his head, eyes scanning the horizon before climbing into the car, she swore for half a heartbeat that he paused.
Like he felt something.
Like he knew.
⸻
After the race—another podium, another roar—he sat in the team truck long after everyone left.
The city outside was still alive with celebration.
He pulled up the old number he never deleted, the one labeled New York.
No message this time.
Just a silent draft.
Then, after a long moment, he typed two words.
Still trying.
He didn’t hit send.
⸻
Months later, when Bandini bought out half of Neon Apex’s driver contracts, he didn’t ask who their new PR head was.
He didn’t have to.
Because when he saw the first internal email marked Prepared by: Victoria Alvarez, he felt it—like the world had circled back.
He laughed under his breath, one hand over his mouth.
“Of course it’s you,” he said quietly. “It was always you.”